


a secret stuck in your throat

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Fake Character Death, Gen, One Shot, Post-War, Pre-Slash, this is not my usual thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8471155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: Draco liked to think he was a clever man. And as a clever man, he knew that the presence of Harry Potter on his doorstep, years after they had last seen each other, in the late evening of an otherwise ordinary Wednesday in October, was not a good thing.
Especially considering that Harry Potter, along with the rest of the world, was supposed to think that Draco Malfoy had died four years ago.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if this is a one-shot or if I'll continue it, but I was reading The Da Vinci Code and the language of it struck me, and I suddenly had inspiration, so I wrote this. Sorry for any mistakes, I'll clean it up in the morning. There is some swearing in this. Thanks guys!

Draco was an exceedingly clever person. He had no grades to showcase the existence of his sharp, analytical mind, and even if he did, nobody would take note of them. All he had was an endless list of stupid choices he had made, the proof of which was carved into his skin years ago. Instead of his brain, people saw the scar on his arm that will never fade. Instead of his skill, people saw the minor tremor that still plagued his right arm, brought about by over-exposure to the Crucaitus Curse, although nobody but a handful of Healers knew that. A choice few that he followed home in the dark, early hours of the morning bore witness to the raised, silver lines criss-crossing his chest, the marks of two equally desperate boys; one drowning in fear and hopelessness, the other crawling his way out of a pit of anger and frustration.

Draco saw the scars too, but he also knew what was beneath them, and thus he considered himself a clever man. And as a clever man, he knew that the presence of Harry Potter on his doorstep, years after they had last seen each other, in the late evening of an otherwise ordinary Wednesday in October, was _not_ a good thing.

Especially considering that Harry Potter, along with the rest of the world, was supposed to think that Draco Malfoy had died, four years ago.

“Are you going to let me in?”

Draco remained perfectly immobile, one hand still clutching the door, threatening to slam it shut at the first hint of a wand or an Auror’s badge. Draco took an owl, in secret, that carried the Daily Prophet, and the front pages were still always plastered with images of Harry Potter, striding through the halls of the Ministry of Magic in the usual red Auror’s robes, so Draco knew that this encounter didn’t bode well for him. It could turn ugly any minute.

Although, Draco noted belatedly, Potter wasn’t wearing his robes. He was dressed in plain Muggle gear, just like Draco – an untidy shirt and a pair of blue jeans that had seen better days, as well as a pair of scuffed trainers. His hair was in its’ usual state of disarray, and his expression was rather bleak, but there was no badge in sight, no wand, and no Weasley or Granger standing behind him in the dank hallway that led to Draco’s home.

The hallway lightbulb flickered, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and the suspiciously stained brown carpet, momentarily throwing their faces into shadow, and Draco glanced up irritably; he had gotten fed up with the constant flickering a few days ago and changed the lightbulb himself, but apparently, it was something to do with the wires, and not the bulb.

_A wasted effort,_ Draco thought, and then looked away.

Potter had taken a step closer. Draco moved back immediately, although not far enough that there was room to let Potter into his home. Draco was a clever man, after all, and clever men do not usually invite trouble into their calm lives.

“You aren’t supposed to know about me,” Draco said, and narrowed his eyes when Potter blinked at him in shock. Draco knew why, or he could _guess_ why. His voice, among many other things, had changed since the war, which was when Harry Potter had last spoken to him, after the trial. Draco sounded softer now, his voice rounding out, gaining a slight huskiness that Draco blamed entirely on the English weather and the lack of a real hearth in winter, and not on the countless packets of cigarettes that he smoked daily, nor the occasional cigar that he indulged in. He didn’t drink, couldn’t stand the taste of whiskey, but cigarettes were his weakness, his one addiction.

He had lost the imperative note to his tone, misplaced the harsh cruelty in his vowels, forgotten the anger. Oh, it still simmered away inside of him but, Draco wouldn’t allow himself to get mad over trifles, and that was what is life consisted of now. Trifles. Matters of little interest. Dull, ordinary plot points in an otherwise uneventful tale.

The point of this was to be someone different. The point of this was to remake himself.

“I stole your file,” Potter said hoarsely.

Draco was not surprised, but he still flinched. His file was extensive, detailing every offence that Draco had caused, every ounce of pain he had inflicted on the lives of others whilst under the thumb of the Dark Lord, and it didn’t matter that it had all been under duress, that he had been controlled by threats and fear for his family’s safety. The only thing that had saved him from a life in prison was the fact that he was a minor when all of it happened, and Kingsley Shacklebolt’s quick thinking.

That, and Harry Potter had vouched for him.

“I think that’s frowned upon,” Draco said, with a lightness he did not feel. He pulled the door tighter, because he could sense his curiosity growing, and the part of him that hadn’t been drowned out by it yet did not want Potter in his home.

“I had permission,” Potter said.

Draco lifted an eyebrow, watched as Potter tracked the movement, a small frown curling his lips. Draco knew he was staring at the little silver ball hooked into his left brow. That was why he had bought it, after all. Part of him insisted that it was just another layer of his new image, a way to change himself. A bigger part of him wanted people to look, to remember him.

“I need to come in,” Potter said, his tone vaguely distracted. He glanced around the empty hallway, which smelled vaguely like citrus cleaning fluid and mostly like piss, and then down at the dark stairwell, which led down to the second floor. There was an elevator at the end of the corridor, next to Mrs Rosenburg’s flat, but it hadn’t worked in years. Draco watched as Potter’s flickering gaze became increasingly urgent, and considered it all for a second. If someone did come looking for Potter, they would find Draco too, and Draco had done too good of a job of hiding for the past four years to let it all be ruined by one person’s carelessness.

Draco eyed Potter, recognising the desperate look in his eyes, and knew the boy – _man_ , he supposed – wouldn’t be budged easily. The best thing to do was invite him in, extract information, and then get rid of him as quickly as possible.

“Fine,” Draco said, opening the door a fraction more and stepping aside. “Make it quick.”

Potter slipped past him, hesitant. Draco busied himself with the fourteen bolts and chains that decorated the inside of his front door, and then dusted off his hands and marched past Potter, who stood baffled in the hallway.

“Kitchen,” Draco said, pointing down the hall. He needed a smoke.

Potter followed him reluctantly, almost floating along like a man that didn’t trust his body. He glanced around Draco’s tiny kitchen with his eyebrows raised, and for a moment Draco missed the impressive opulence of The Manor. He brushed the feeling away.

“This isn’t going to be quick,” Potter warned him.

Draco blew out a short sigh through his nose. “Of course it isn’t. Tea?”

He plucked the kettle from its stand without waiting for an answer and filled it with water before setting it to boil. Draco had tried struggling with leaves and a teapot for a few weeks, when he first moved in, in an attempt to make it taste the way his mother used to make it, but he had gotten so frustrated that he slammed the teapot against the counter and watched it crack in half before storming to the nearest store and purchasing an electric kettle. He remembered fumbling with the foreign, Muggle coins that came in his weekly allowance before pushing a handful of notes into the bemused woman’s hands and storming out again, kettle clutched to his chest.

He got out mugs and teabags and then pulled a cigarette out of the packet lying on the table, lighting it and taking a long drag. He pushed open one of the kitchen windows to let the smoke out, and then leaned against the counter whilst the kettle boiled, closing his eyes in pleasure before blowing out a hazy smoke ring.

Potter was staring at him when he opened his eyes, with such a look of shock and confusion that it made Draco snort. The sound was almost swallowed beneath the noise that floated up through the window from the street, the sounds of wheels against the gravel and buses that rumbled past, people laughing and shouting to each other.

“This is so fucking weird,” Potter muttered. Draco pretended not to hear him, balancing his cigarette between his fingers. The kettle clicked off, and Draco poured two cups of tea, one for himself, and one for Potter, which he slid across the table. Potter picked it up hesitantly, still on the other side of the room, the table between them like a barrier, a shield should Draco suddenly crack and reveal his old, sneering self.

“It’s good,” Potter said, lifting the mug slightly in gratitude. There was a chip in the rim of the cup, and Draco found he didn’t care.

He rolled his eyes. “Get to the point, Potter. Why are you here? How did you know I was alive?”

Potter took a deep breath and then sat heavily in one of Draco’s kitchen chairs. His knuckles turned white against the mug, his grip unyielding.

“I didn’t know you were alive until about two hours ago,” Potter said, his voice tight. “I thought you died four years ago, like everyone else. I didn’t believe it at first. I thought it might have been a lie, some kind of scheme, and I looked for you for a while. Eventually I realised that you really were dead.” He looked up sharply. “Apparently, I should have trusted my instincts.”

Draco spread his hands in agreement. “Apparently.”

“Kingsley…” Potter’s voice faltered strangely, and the knot that had grown in Draco’s stomach from the moment he opened his door suddenly tightened. Potter rallied before Draco could comment. “Kingsley gave me a letter, about four years ago. I should have suspected, given the timing of things. He told me not to open it unless something happened to him.”

Draco flicked a bit of ash out of the window. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that something happened to him.”

Potter nodded shortly. “He’s currently in a coma in St Mungo’s, and they don’t know when he’s going to wake up. _If_ he’s going to wake up. The Deputy, Abbot, is taking over for the Minister until Kingsley recovers. I figured this counted as something happening, though, and I opened the letter about two hours ago. It had instructions in it, detailing how to get into your file, which was in a secret location.”

Draco took another long drag of his cigarette, and then let it out slowly. His expression remained calm despite the way his heart was thumping wildly in his chest. Years ago, he might have thrown a fit, shouted himself hoarse about his safety and how stupid the Ministry was, and how Potter was an idiot for coming here and possibly giving Draco away, but it wasn’t years ago, and he had learned.

“And the file led you here, to me,” Draco finished for him. He put the cigarette down on the slate-coloured countertop and gulped his tea. “It’s supposed to be a complete secret. I only ever spoke to Shacklebolt. It was his idea, all of this.” He gestured vaguely at the kitchen, from the black kettle to the large fridge that buzzed irritatingly, and at the shining white floor tiles that Draco had fitted himself. It had taken an entire weekend of swearing and there was a crack in several tiles, evidence of when he had dropped them, and one of them squeaked when he stepped on it, but he thought they were more than satisfactory.

Potter looked around too, and Draco wondered what he was seeing. A hovel, he supposed, although at least it was clean. Certainly, nothing like Potter’s home probably looked, considering how rich Potter was now, and _definitely_ nothing like the Manor. Draco had certainly fallen far, depending on how you looked at it.

“What happened?” Potter asked. “Why did you fake all of this?”

Draco rolled his eyes and stubbed out his cigarette, throwing it out of the window and shutting it, making sure to lock the latch. There were spells on the flat, placed there by Kingsley four years ago and refreshed every four weeks, but Draco liked to be certain that he was safe, had learned the hard way that safety was a privilege. There were locks on everything, and he had even installed a Muggle security system, although it often didn’t work because of Kingsley’s spells. Luckily, this part of London was almost entirely non-magical, so the rest of Draco’s things still worked.

“I told you, it was Shacklebolt’s idea,” Draco said, folding his arms as he leaned back against the counter, ankles crossed. “Four years ago, after all of the trials, he realised that there were still people after me. Death Eater’s, mostly, but also people that were pissed that I hadn’t gone to Askaban. Families, people that fought in the war. I’m pretty sure your girlfriend was one of them, Potter.”

He raised his mug in mock-cheer to Potter, who winced imperceptibly. Ginny Weasley had definitely been in some of the more chaotic riots, although she was careful to never get involved in the violence, and even more careful not to get caught. Draco had seen her, as he was chivvied from the Ministry to Diagon Alley by burly men in dark uniforms, and although it had been years, he would never forget the dark, hard grief in the lines of her face, the accusation in her brown eyes. There were a lot of things that Draco would never forget.

“So you weren’t safe,” Potter said slowly. “That didn’t mean you had to fake your own _death_.”

Draco actually laughed. It was a strange sound, and it echoed oddly around the kitchen. It wasn’t his old scoff or snicker, and it wasn’t the usual chuckle that he had adopted either. It was something else entirely, brought on by shock, perhaps, or just Potter’s naivety.

“That’s _exactly_ what it meant, Potter,” Draco said. “I wasn’t exactly eager to rot in prison like my father, and the magical safe house I was put into, where I was supposed to carry out my sentence, was attacked within two days of me being there. I don’t know who tried to kill me, but they gave it their best shot.”

He yanked up the hem of his shirt, revealing a circular scar about the size of a saucer on the lower part of his torso, just above his hipbone. It didn’t look as bad now as it had before, but it still made Draco grimace in pain some nights, a phantom ache flooding his body, the remnants of a spell long since cast. Potter’s face grew pale and his brows furrowed as he stared at the scar, only blinking when Draco dropped his shirt and continued talking.

“Nasty spell, that,” Draco said. “Illegal. Equivalent of a knife to the small intestine, with a blood-thinning side-effect, to get the blood flowing quicker. Stomach wounds take a while to die from, depending on where you’re hit. Shacklebolt was there. Saved my life.”

He thought of Kingsley, lying prone in a hospital, his usual solemn face eaten up by pain and then he brushed the image away.

“Shacklebolt was elected Minister for Magic, properly, and he came up with this plan. He fabricated a lie, that I had died in a struggle trying to flee the safe house, killed by a stray Death Eater that they caught the next week. Then he fed the lie to the press, and ultimately to the world, and brought me here. He hid me away.” Draco took another gulp of his rapidly cooling tea, licking his dry lips. He had never spoken about this before, not to anyone. Shacklebolt had forbidden it, for one thing, and for another, there was nobody to tell.

“And nobody knew?” Potter demanded. “It was just him?”

“Just him,” Draco confirmed. “Nobody else was aware. He broke the news of my death to my mother privately, of course, so he may have hinted at something, to comfort her.”

Potter stood up abruptly at Draco’s words, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. The chair hit the wall with a thump that made Draco wince. “Even your mother thinks you’re dead?” Potter demanded. “That’s sick, Malfoy. She deserves to know that her son’s _alive_.”

“Yes, Potter, I agree,” Draco snapped, angry for the first time tonight. “Do you think I _want_ her to believe I’m dead? She’s my mother, and I haven’t seen her in four fucking years, but I think she’d rather I stay safe and away from her than risk telling her and put us both in danger.”

He took a deep breath, cutting himself off from any further shouting, and closed his eyes. He could feel Potter’s gaze on him, sharp and alert, and he just wanted to shove Potter out of the door and demand that he stay the fuck away, but something told him that wasn’t going to be an option. He focused on breathing instead, on filling his lungs with something other than the toxic, bitter rant that he wanted to spill all over the floor.

“It’s been years,” Draco said quietly. “She will have moved on by now.”

Potter stared at him intently. “Parents never stop mourning. They don’t move on. They just learn to live with it, like all grief.”

Draco tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Wise words, Potter. Never thought I’d see the day when you had something smart to say to me. Or to anyone, for that matter.” He spoke blithely, with barely a hint of disdain. “Why are you still here?”

Potter snorted. “It’s my job to be here. For whatever reason, Kingsley decided that I needed to know about this. I suppose someone needed to know your secret, and I don’t know why he picked me of all people, but I’m not about to not do my duty just because it involves a complete prick.”

Draco smiled at the ceiling faintly, almost amused. “So bloody English. And noble. You really haven’t changed at all.”

“I’ll need lists of all the terms and spells associated with your protection, as well as any rules that you two have. I’m assuming that this serves as your sentence, in a way, so I’ll need to keep an eye on you. I need to know how often you and Kingsley interact, and what those interactions involve, and I’ll need to see your wand, so that I can reset the tracking spell.”

Draco dropped his gaze, found Potter’s intense stare still fixed on him, and lifted his brow again, thoroughly amused when Potter couldn’t help but follow the movement again with a slightly glazed look.

“I can do all of that, except the last one.”

Potter’s expression hardened. “Malfoy, don’t try and-”

“I’m not saying it to be difficult, Potter,” Draco cut over him, rolling his eyes impatiently. “Fuck, I haven’t been this annoyed in _years_.”

Potter smiled sarcastically. “I’ve been told that I bring out the best in people.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Draco said. “Look, you can’t track me through a wand because I don’t _have_ one.”

“Of course you do, I gave you your wand back after the trial.”

“And it was then confiscated by a Hitwizard and placed in a locked vault in the Department of Mysteries, where it’s been for the past four years, idiot,” Draco snapped. “What part of _sentence_ did you not get? Think of it like exile, or a slightly larger prison. I’m not allowed to use magic. It’s been bound. My wand is gone, and should I cast any kind of spell, using any wand I find or purchase, I will immediately show up on the Ministry’s radar, and I’ll go to Askaban. I’m not allowed to step foot in the magical world unless escorted by Shacklebolt, and even then I’d have to be in disguise, if I didn’t want my cover blown. There are all sorts of spells in place here, Potter, spells that your pathetically dim mind can only begin to understand. I’m essentially a Muggle.”

The irony was not lost on him, and it wasn’t lost on Potter either. A flicker of amusement crossed Potter’s dark face, only to be chased away by something almost pitying, and Draco didn’t miss the way that Potter’s hand drifted to his back pocket, his fingers itching with the urge to check that the same sentence hadn’t befallen him suddenly, that he still had his wand, his safety, his freedom. Draco wanted to sneer at him, but he bit back the expression and settled on something disinterested instead, picking at one of his well-kept nails.

It stung, though. Potter still had his magic, and Draco ached for it, longed to feel magic flooding his veins again, to know that he was a Wizard, still. Four years was a long time to go without something that made you who you were. Magic was not an addiction, nor was it something that could be wiped away, but it could be contained. It was in the blood, and in the blood it stayed, which only made his inability to use it all the more frustrating.

Abruptly, Draco couldn’t look at Potter anymore. He busied himself with his mug, pouring away the dregs of tea and flicking on the taps. The old boiler rattled to life, and steam rose up from the sink in clouds.

“Come back the day after tomorrow, and I’ll have all of the paperwork ready for you,” Draco said, his voice remarkably calm considering the storm brewing inside of him. “Don’t tell anyone about me, not your friends, or your girlfriend, or the rest of the Weasley’s.” It cost him something to use their real names. “I don’t care how much you trust them, you can’t reveal anything. Shacklebolt wanted it that way.”

He knew Potter wouldn’t argue with that, especially not when the man lay dying in some room in the hospital. He reached for the washing up liquid.

“Just one more question,” Potter said awkwardly, his voice both soft and stern at the same time. “How much longer is your sentence? How long do you have left, living like this?”

Draco’s hand arrested mid-movement, fingers flexing over nothing. He turned the taps off, just to give himself something to hold onto. His throat was tight, and he had to squeeze the words out.

“It’s a fifteen-year sentence,” Draco said hoarsely. “Eleven years. I have eleven years left. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

Potter inhaled sharply. He said nothing. Then, just as Draco was about to turn and yell, the bolts slid open and the door creaked once, then twice, before silence fell. Draco closed his eyes briefly before crossing to the door and flinging all the bolts across, his movements jerky. Then he let his forehead rest against the door with a soft thud and groaned.

Potter. Harry fucking Potter, in his home, talking to him about magic, and the wizarding world.

He had two choices. He could either wash his mug, and then sit on the floor and smoke his way through three packets of cigarettes before surrendering to a restless night of tossing and turning and over-analysing every word that had spilled from Potter’s lips tonight, or he could throw on some obscenely tight clothes and catch a cab to the club three streets over, where nobody would see the wild, desperate glint in his eye, where he could lose himself in the crowd, and possibly someone in particular, depending on the selection of available men.

It was an easy choice. Draco took a deep breath, and let it out again. “Harry fucking Potter,” he whispered, half-laughing.

Then he threw the bolts back across and went to get changed.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought? Leave a comment or a kudos! I just kind of liked the idea, that's all. Wanted to explore a different Draco. Thank you so much! You can find me @thealmostrhetoricalquestion on Tumblr, if you wanna chat or yell. Thank you!


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